I Can Copy And Evolve Talents

Bairan stood lazily, leaning against a light pole with his hands folded. He watched with nonchalant eyes as all the soldiers who had been stationary began changing.

Their faces twisted, their skin reddening as if they’d caught some deviously vicious rash. Their eyes blackened like liquid pools of darkness, and they began to move forward—at first with sluggish, irritating movements.

The Sword King didn’t have to repel them deliberately. All he gave them was a dirty slap that threw them off balance. The main boy, however, was nowhere to be found.

He’d suddenly vanished, dissipating into black toxic smoke that dispersed among all the soldiers. It was after he dispersed that they began to act differently, losing control of themselves to something vile.

All their focus was on Bairan.

They flew forward, their talent abilities flaring to life. Flames ignited, thunder crackled—even the wind seemed to create an oscillation around one soldier’s hand.

All of them were directed toward Bairan. Yet he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

Bairan exhaled and yanked the light pole free with minimal force. He swung the tall pole around, destroying everything within reach. The spin generated a great cyclone that pushed them all back.

Bairan positioned the pole forward, bending his legs slightly and narrowing his eyes to a sharp, eagle-like focus.

“Moonlit Whisper… Scholar’s Reversal.”

The scene was quite a funny, astonishing, and unusually disturbing sight.

Bairan took a delicate step forward, gently holding and hurling the pole in an intricate pattern that seemed ill-suited for such a weapon—if it could even be called that. The pole moved as if it belonged, blending seamlessly with his movements.

The entire air rippled solemnly like the surface of still, perfect water. Then, in the next second, blood surged viciously from the soldiers’ bodies as they were all suddenly suspended in the air by a wicked and seemingly mystical force.

Bairan moved between them, taking his time as he guided the enormous, unwieldy pole with one hand.

The pole flew across several monsters, slicing through them with wicked impossibility.

The scene was incredibly disturbing. The soldiers died grotesquely, their eyes wide open.

Even the buildings received scars from the terrific sword technique—deep grooves in the earth stretched forward like disaster paths, connecting and slanting up building walls.

The problem was that even as they died, immersed in their own pool of blood, they kept standing up. More were upon him.

Their talents threw measly abilities at him, which he blocked with the pole he wielded or simply vanished out of the way to avoid.

His movement seemed erratic, but it was deliberate. Bairan shifted and glided through the undying people with precision, ruthlessly mangling their bodies with the pole. All of them bent in crude ways, to the point where he was having just a little trouble restraining himself.

The way he wrecked such havoc made him want to wreck even more. Perhaps unleash the full extent of his power, but the Sword King felt that was far beneath him.

They kept coming over and over again, jumping at him, which eventually forced his hand.

He extended two fingers and shot forward. He’d press them into their bodies and cause confusion until they suddenly gained life back, only to die again.

To put it simply, the way he’d helped Paragon Raizel heal his hand was by making the hand remember it had always belonged, commanding it to belong.

The way he could transform into a bird was by deluding his body into thinking it had always been a bird, commanding it to belong. Hence, he transformed into a bird.

With the falling bodies now, all he did was cause them to remember what they had always been. This helped the real owners of the bodies find their way back into control.

However, if they’d been ruthlessly killed before, they fell to the ground powerlessly and died the moment they gained control of themselves.

This went on for a while, with the Sword King standing in one position and wielding only two fingers.

Eventually, many lay around him, permanently dead, while others reeled back in confusion.

The Sword King himself stood with an impassive gaze, seemingly unimpressed by what anyone would watch with heavenly reverence.

Finally, the black mist that had flowed into people began to flow out—as though it had been fully ejected.

Actually, it had. Because what Bairan did was force it out of where it didn’t belong. The Sword King’s will, though very subtle, was far stronger than the young and new Paragon’s Essence Manifestation and undying abilities.

The boy grimaced, trembling with a pale, sweating face as his effort failed woefully.

He staggered back, trembling and stretching forth his hand.

“Wh—who a—are y–you?!”

Bairan tilted his head and shrugged nonchalantly.

“Just a guy obsessed with swords.”

The soldier extended his hand and shouted in defiance, trembling.

“It’s impossible! Are you a Paragon?! I’ve never heard of a Paragon like you—where do you belong? Where do you come from?!”

He was right. Aside from matters within the Empire of Reimgard and the sudden appearance of these new Paragons, there were only five Paragons in the whole of the Central Plains.

Three of them were Dante, Raizel, and Rughsbourgh. Of the remaining two, one was the headmaster of the strongest Citadel in the Central Plains, while the last was the Clan Patriarch of the Kageyama Clan.

These last two weren’t active in the world, although the legend of their names still carried such fearsome effect that if they were to be active somewhere or make any significant movement, the entire continent would tremble with devastating consequences.

They were so powerful that every single one of their decisions influenced the flow of things. Especially since both were heads of very powerful organizations themselves.

The young soldier was absolutely certain that none of them were here. So who was this strange Paragon fighting him like he was fighting a child?

Could he even be called a Paragon?

To him, Bairan seemed far stronger. He hadn’t even taken the battle seriously, and this was the result.

He wielded a pole as a sword, clearly not even considering things seriously—taking the boy for a joke.

The boy wanted to run, but then again, he was infuriated, consumed by anger. He wanted to make a difference, make this strange man start taking him seriously.

A wry grin slowly crept upon his face.

“You’ll need to start getting serious from here on. Since you’ve forced my hand… don’t complain, stranger.”

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